Your God warns you of armies
marching into you, taking arms up
inside your vessels
in the name of something holy.
She speaks to you, Her voice
a dynamic, monotonic
wrath, emergent like monoliths
of warzones
etched in your veins, each childhood
lesion a legion of lost
battles, of lost wars.
She speaks like God sputters
blood into your body, a voice
molding you into obelisks bolstered
by your vertebrae, flesh
stretching upward, hands folding
inward in prayer.
She lays you to rest, your body
baptized by cavity bombs
searing desolation
into your corpse cavities. She speaks
a wasteland mass amassing
gunpowder
inside you, igniting like body pits
forcing brain-body funerals
in the name of something holy.
About the Creator
Corvus
Corvus is a kaleidoscope of Gothic word-craft, stuck somewhere within the hurricanes of prose and poetry and wrung out on each page. Find more fragments of the love letter on their website, corvuslove.
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